


Still On We Crawl

by HowCleverOfYou



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Child Abuse, I know you want to, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kissing, M/M, No wolves, Physical Abuse, Romance, Stiles is on the swim team, imagine him in a lil speedo, oh yeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 02:00:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HowCleverOfYou/pseuds/HowCleverOfYou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isaac kisses like a prayer, like confession and forgiveness and salvation. He kisses like he thinks he should be better at it while his hands feather over Stiles’ shoulders and back and grip his hips hard enough to bruise. To Stiles, he is opposites and sames and he brings things together and tears them apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still On We Crawl

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xinio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xinio/gifts).



In Stiles’ mind, things are fast paced, so the gentle swaying of wading in contrast to the rapid _splash splash splash_ of a whole team of high school boys racing across the pool is cathartic. The swim cap is tight and rubbery but sometimes it feels like it’s the only thing keeping his mind in order.

School isn’t his niche, but he gets by enough to stay on the team with the help of Danny, who plays lacrosse with Stiles’ best friend Scott and has a slow, lazy grin. He doesn’t have a lot of patience for Stiles’ quickly changing attention, but has plenty of time for boys like Matt and Ethan who don’t run in his circle but who he looks at like Scott looks at Allison.

Sometimes Stiles wants to ask Danny what it’s like to kiss someone who has a hard jaw or stubble. Sometimes he lets his hair grow out a little bit and closes his eyes when he runs a hand across his face, like maybe he’s running his fingers along someone else’s face. But then he opens his eyes and it’s always just him and his scratchy not-beard.

When he was younger, he’d always wondered what it would be like to kiss _someone_. Now that he’s older, he wonders what it would feel like to kiss someone with harder edges. He doesn’t feel like it’s abnormal curiosity or experimentation – it’s natural, it’s normal.

Coach Lahey likes him; he’s ranked up at the lowest of the highs. He’s good, but not too good, so Coach doesn’t ride him awful hard like he rides Matt or his own son Camden. Stiles’ body is long and lean and takes to water like a fish and sometimes he thinks that there’s nothing more for him out there, out where there’s walking on dry land and being a nobody.

Camden is cool and nice and sometimes he pays attention to Stiles, but he’s the leader of the group of swimmers and Stiles just sticks with Scott because Scott is his best friend and has been since second grade, when he’d lost his pencil cap eraser and the boy at the desk next to his gave him one to keep.

Coach’s other son is Isaac, who has a natural talent for piano (the fingers to match) and an array of rainbow string bracelets decorating both arms. He wears leather jackets and a permanent sneer and while the swim team protects him like he’s their pet, they don’t talk to him or look at him or even breathe the same air as him.

He’s the Coach’s disappointment because he’d never gone for swimming. Cam has a sheared head, his scalp no longer the bright white of just-shaved, while Isaac has a thick head of brown curls that even Stiles is envious of. Cam is just shorter and Isaac is a million times better looking.

Stiles wonders what it would be like to kiss him. (Fingers fisted in his locks, stretched up on his toes until they cramp to reach his mouth – god. God.) He doesn’t think about it often.

Stiles doesn’t talk to him, following the code of the swim team, until a few weeks after junior year starts, when Coach holds a party at his house for the whole group of them. Isaac stays up in his room while the team ambles out around the pool, drinking and talking and laughing. Stiles sits with his shoulder pressed against Matt’s, their feet dangling in the pool. Matt is clicking through the pictures on his Canon, lens face pressed against the rolled up denim of his jeans. He doesn’t swim a lot, just kind of stands on the sidelines and clicks his camera. He’s on the team, but he’s also on yearbook, and that comes first.

Coach likes him. He has a picture of Cam, snapped right after they’d won last year’s statewide championship, half-submerged in water and looking for all the world like a badass. Coach had coerced him into going to Walgreens and getting it blown up for above the fireplace, and he’d done it all for free. Stiles likes Coach, likes how passionate he is and how hard he pushes the team, but he’s not stupid – he knows Coach is manipulative and cheap and always gets his way. He’s that kind of guy.

So they’re sitting around the pool – Cam and Devon splashing around in the water, having races and goofing off – and Coach is standing in the doorway with a cup of whiskey, grinning out at all of them. He looks proud and Stiles doesn’t think of how he doesn’t look at Isaac like that, because the thought doesn’t even occur to him.

He excuses himself to the bathroom, hopping up and patting Matt on the shoulder. There’s a blue and red beach towel slung over the arm of one of the deck chairs and Stiles uses it to wipe off his calves before rolling his jeans back down. Coach slaps him on the back as he passes and Stiles grins at him. The downstairs bathroom is occupied so he jogs up the stairs, bare feet thumping against the smooth wood. He heads slowly down the hall, trying to judge where, exactly, the bathroom would be.

He picks a door by chance – the second one on his right – and gets a bedroom instead. Isaac is standing in the middle of the room, white towel tied around his waist while he scrubs his curls dry with another. He turns at the sound of the door opening, mouth open in an _o_ of surprise, and Stiles goes, “Oh, shit, sorry,” and goes to leave, heart thumping and blood rushing south.

“No, it’s – it’s okay.”

Stiles eases the door back open slightly and he tries to stop them, but his eyes devour every inch of smooth, wet, tanned skin by their own merit. He quirks at eyebrow up, gaze dropping lower, lower, and then snaps it back up to look Isaac in the face.

He’s not wearing his bracelets or his leather jacket or his smirk. His cheeks are red with embarrassment Stiles didn’t know he was capable of. He’s staring at Stiles’ feet and he shifts them a little bit in response, suddenly self-conscious. He’s not even the one that’s naked.

Isaac chokes on a word that sounds like, “Come,” then glances up to meet Stiles’ eyes. He looks so shy and unsure and Stiles is waiting for the punch line here, waiting for Isaac to call him a fag or yell for him to get out or _something_. But Isaac doesn’t say anything else and Stiles keeps standing there, feeling perverted as he continues to take in every inch of bare skin.

“Close the door,” Isaac says eventually, and Stiles almost wishes it was more loaded than is sounds, but it’s probably just in case one of the boys downstairs (or Coach, God) come upstairs and catches Stiles accidentally checking the shit out of Isaac. He obeys and then stands there, toes digging in the carpet.

“Nice room you’ve got here,” he says even though he hasn’t looked away from Isaac once since he’d walked in. He tears his gaze away, then, and glances around the room. There are a series of superhero posters up on the walls around his bed and desk, which has a stack of video games sitting on the corner. His bookshelf is full of comics and books with white cracks down the spine and Stiles has never had a crush on Isaac Lahey, just wondered what it would be like to press their mouths together, but in that moment his heart swells.

Isaac keeps looking like he’s waiting for some sort of approval and it’s throwing Stiles off so much that he starts to wonder if maybe Isaac has a secret twin brother. Because Isaac isn’t glaring or shoving his friends in lockers. He’s just standing there, turning the towel over in his hands, as the water dries on his skin.

Stiles doesn’t know what propels him forward, but suddenly he’s standing in front of Isaac, their bare feet only about a foot apart. Stiles could probably drop a paperback version of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone between them and have it still hit their toes.

Isaac isn’t toned, not like his brother, but he’s got a nice, smooth stomach with just a shadow of a six pack. Stiles is around wet, shirtless guys all the time, but he’s never felt that buzz before, the desire to get _closer_. This is not curiosity, this is not experimentation – this is Isaac and his dumb gross fantastic smirking mouth and his uncharacteristic quietness and broad shoulders.

Isaac keeps looking at him, looking at his hands, and the room is startlingly quiet aside from the distant sound of voices and laughter outside and the quiet _dnk dnk dnk_ of the fan overhead. And then Stiles’ right hand is hovering in the distance between them, fingertips brushing maybe his aura, until Isaac nudges his stomach forward just slightly.

Then Stiles is sweeping one hand over Isaac’s stomach and chest and shoulders. Isaac’s eyes slip closed, mouth parted just slightly, and his Adam’s apple isn’t prominent, but it jumps every time he swallows. Stiles reaches out and grips Isaac’s right bicep with his left hand and needs to stop and look for a second because his fingers don’t even make it halfway around. He stares and stares until Isaac whines quietly in the back of his throat.

Then he’s suddenly aware that he still needs to piss and that Isaac is holding up his towel in a white-knuckled grip. Stiles’ thumb is right underneath Isaac’s left nipple and he chances it up, the pad of his finger brushing over the hardening tip, and Isaac sucks in a breath and tips his head back, just a little bit.

“Wait,” Isaac says, stepping back. Stiles goes to follow but Isaac holds out a hand. Stiles bumps into it, then reaches up and grips it, wondering when this became okay. “Wait you – you were looking for the bathroom. Use mine. I’m – I’m going to at least, uh, I’m going to put some clothes on.”

“Right.” Stiles doesn’t want to stop touching Isaac and his warm chest but he heads towards the bathroom and shuts the door behind him. It’s still foggy and heavy and smells like shampoo, and it feels weird to pull himself out right after he molested Isaac’s chest, but his bladder has never been that big.

He pees, washes his hands, then stands awkwardly in front of the door. They should have had a code word or something for this so that Stiles doesn’t walk back in to see Isaac ass-up or something. Not that that would suck, exactly, but still.

He taps his knuckles on the door and says, “You decent?”

After a moment, Isaac says, “Yeah,” and Stiles opens the door. Isaac’s in a pair of gray sweatpants that say BEACON HILLS SWIMMING down the leg in red font and a black tee shirt that stretches over his chest. Stiles tries not to look too much because maybe Isaac is going to ask him to leave.

But Isaac is also standing between him and the door, so maybe he can head towards Isaac with the intent of maybe making out a little bit, but if Isaac rejects him, he can just pretend he was going to leave. Good, yes.

He starts towards Isaac, who has his eyes trained on a spot just over his right shoulder. When Isaac doesn’t make any move to grab his elbow or sweep him off his feet like a damsel in distress or just _stop him_ , Stiles reroutes and walks around.

He’s just about to the door when he hears Isaac say, “You could stay. If you wanted.”

When Stiles turns around, Isaac is still facing the bathroom door, but his head is tilted on an angle like he’s listening for Stiles’ reaction. Stiles wants to stay. He’s breaking every unspoken rule that has ever graced the swim team – and in the first few weeks, no doubt – but Isaac is gorgeous and has Iron Man posters and Stiles wants to kiss him.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. He takes a few steps back towards Isaac, heart beating out of his chest. “If you want me to. I can stay for a while.” Isaac doesn’t say anything so Stiles tip-toes closer until he can touch the tough skin on his elbow.

Isaac shivers with his entire body and Stiles presses even closer, breathing quiet and open-mouthed against Isaac’s shoulder. Stiles thinks that he’s probably seen this on TV before in those dumb romantic comedies where the guy comes up behind the girl and slips the strap of her nightgown down over her shoulder, then brushes the hair away from her face and kisses her neck. But Stiles is too short to lean down and whisper sensually in Isaac’s ear, and Isaac doesn’t have straps, and Stiles isn’t positive that if he starts kissing Isaac’s skin Isaac won’t swing back and snap his neck.

So he waits, waits, waits, until Isaac reaches back and pulls his arms out to wrap around his waist.

And then they’re flush against each other, and Stiles’ heart is pounding so hard in his chest that he’s sure Isaac can feel it on his shoulder blade. He chances it a little bit, leans forward and drags the tip of his nose across the stretch of skin where Isaac’s neck meets his shoulder.

Isaac makes a quiet noise in the back of his throat and Stiles stretches up on his toes to run his nose up and nuzzle behind Isaac’s ear. Isaac’s hands are pressing his own against his stomach, but suddenly Isaac’s turned around, blue eyes staring down at him. Stiles stretches his fingers against the base of Isaac’s back and leans up to nudge his nose against Isaac’s.

Isaac puts two fingers under his chin and kisses him, over and over and over, soft, closed-mouth kisses that Stiles wants to bury himself in forever. He brings his hand up to the back of Isaac’s neck, twists his fingers in a few strands of his hair, and pulls him in closer.

This is how it starts.

Every few weeks, Coach has parties at his house, and Stiles will sit out and laugh and chat with the rest of the team, then he’ll excuse himself to the bathroom and sneak upstairs to press his body up against Isaac’s.

Isaac kisses like a prayer, like confession and forgiveness and salvation. He kisses like he thinks he should be better at it while his hands feather over Stiles’ shoulders and back and grip his hips hard enough to bruise. To Stiles, he is opposites and sames and he brings things together and tears them apart.

He goes up and taps quietly, just thoughtful fingers against the door. Isaac calls him in and Stiles eases the door open, then closes it once he’s inside. Isaac is usually sitting on his bed, laptop on his knees, earphones in, and he’ll shift over to make room on the mattress so Stiles can squeeze in beside him.

Isaac At Home is a different Isaac than Isaac At School. Isaac At School is hard and cold and mean. Stiles knows a mask when he sees one and Isaac’s might as well have bells, whistles, and bright cultural paints depicting pain and sorrow. He’s still the Coach’s son and the swim team still looks out for him but he eats alone at lunch and drifts between classes, a permanent sneer on his face.

Isaac At Home is quiet and respectful and sweet. Stiles could love him. He stays up in his room during the parties and keeps to himself. When Stiles goes up, he’s usually watching pirated episodes of TV shows on his computer. He has three Iron Man posters, two Captain America, and a smile he only gives to Stiles.

Stiles isn’t stupid – he can put two and two together. Between the strange bruises Isaac won’t look at and the white scars on his wrists, hidden away under his thousands of bracelets, he knows that something’s going on. He doesn’t doubt Coach would hit his kid, especially when his kid is Isaac, who doesn’t like the water and sings quietly to himself in a soft tenor and kisses Stiles with an unprecedented ferocity. Stiles knows why he puts on his mask and it’s exciting and heartbreaking to have the privilege to see him without it.

They don’t talk outside of the stolen moments they catch during Coach’s parties. Isaac won’t talk to him at school, won’t come over to his house to study, won’t meet him at the mall or talk to him online or on the phone. He says his dad will know.

“We don’t live in a small town, Stiles,” he tells him one day as he changes into a nightshirt that’s ripped at the collar. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what my dad does to me. Imagine if he found out about us.”

The way he says _us_ makes Stiles close his eyes and breathe out because this isn’t just him and Isaac, this is the both of them, together, an _us_. It hurts and it’s wonderful and he feels like he’s been pulled underneath the water of a swimming pool, calm and quarantined but raging and unmanageable up top. This is bigger than the both of them.

Stiles doesn’t think he can handle it until he knows he can.

He wants to spend all of his time with Isaac. He wants to bring Isaac over to his house and push him down onto his small twin bed and kiss him until he can’t breathe. He wants them to play video games on the couch, pizza rolls on a dish in front of them, and he wants to introduce Isaac to his dad. He wants to sit with Isaac at lunch and talk to him by his locker and kiss him in the hall in front of everyone. He wants, he wants, he wants.

(He wants to see Isaac’s naked skin again, wants to stroke his hands over it and leave light kisses all down the knobs of his spine. He wants to be struck with anxiety and press his face against the sharp jut of Isaac’s hip bone, breath coming out in ragged gasps because Isaac is such a beautiful expanse of tanned flesh and hard bone and quiet words and – Stiles thinks about it a lot. He thinks about it _a lot_.)

But then there’s Isaac At School, who falls into a strange group of friends as junior year progresses. He starts going out with Erica Reyes, who is blonde and sexy and who Stiles hates with a deep yearning in his chest. Isaac won’t talk about her with Stiles because she isn’t dating Isaac At Home.

Sometimes it gets confusing when he sees Isaac in the hall, shoulders set back and head held high, because he’s expecting an Isaac who’s slumped down, trying to make himself smaller. He’s expecting soft smiles and quiet laughs but he’s presented with a sharp, cruel twist of the mouth and a loud, echoing laugh that he wants to stuff in a box somewhere Isaac can’t reach.

He and Erica make out in the hallway, long and slow against the lockers. Sometimes Stiles watches them out of the corner of his eye. He burns with jealousy, but there’s a bright spot where he knows that Isaac doesn’t kiss him like that. He kisses Erica for show; he kisses Stiles like he means it.

Stiles is getting his books one day when he hears the grating symphony of Erica and Isaac laughing together, then the telltale smack of lips pulling. Stiles doesn’t look until the bell rings. When they pull apart, Isaac’s bottom lip is still caught between her teeth. He fake growls, she giggles, and then she saunters off to class.

Isaac catches his eye across the hall like he’s known Stiles had been there the whole time and Stiles can practically see his pupils dilate. The tip of his tongue appears, bright between his white teeth, and drags a slow arch across this top lip.

And Stiles wants to go to him. He wants Isaac to kiss him like he’d kissed her. He wants to kiss until he brings out the Isaac who smiles shyly, gazing up between his lashes, whenever Stiles kisses him first.  But the swim team has spies everywhere like they’re some top secret government organization set on ruining the lives of the people just outside their circle, especially Isaac.

So Stiles lifts a hand and traces his thumb across his own collar bone, right underneath the strap of his backpack, nothing to anyone else but Isaac. But there’s a bruise there, burgundy and brown, and Isaac had sucked it there two days before, right through Stiles’ tee shirt. Isaac’s eyes follow his thumb across and he tips his head back, just slightly, baring his neck to Stiles.

Stiles walks away because he doesn’t think he can refuse.

Summer comes and the parties continue. One night, Stiles goes up to Isaac’s room and knocks on the door twice before reaching for the doorknob. There’s a weight thrown up against the door and the knob won’t budge and Isaac says, “You can’t, you can’t,” through the door, voice cracking. Stiles doesn’t know what to do or what to say so he says, “Okay,” and goes back downstairs.

Isaac comes to practice with his dad the next day with a broken arm and stitches above his eye. He won’t look at Stiles.

Senior year begins and Stiles stays up long after his dad shuts off his lights, bent over his laptop and seeing what would happen to Isaac if he came in and saved him. He tries not to imagine himself in a Superman costume, swooping in through the window and rescuing Isaac from the clutches of the Evil Coach Lahey, but not thinking about himself wearing a costume makes him imagine Isaac in blue tights and he loses his train of thought anyway.

He comes up with a plan the second week of school, but Isaac won’t open his door.

Coach must know he keeps going up to Isaac’s bedroom because one night, when Stiles excuses himself to the bathroom, he hears Coach call over Greenberg. Stiles goes upstairs, mostly just to keep up appearances, and locks himself in the bathroom. He flicks on the switch for the fan and pulls the letter he’s already written Isaac out of his pocket. He glances over it, stuffs it back away, and flushes the toilet.

He comes out a moment later to see Greenberg – who is just as useless as his brother, and who never went to college and sticks around town hanging out with the swim team – peering up around the wall by the stairs. His eyes get wide when he sees Stiles and he tries to scurry away, but Stiles calls, “Greenberg, you gotta use the bathroom? I’m done, now.”

“No,” he responds. “I’m cool.”

“What are you doing up here, then?” he asks, tilting his head to the side like he’s actually confused. If he acts confused, Greenberg will get confused, and then everyone wins. (Except Greenberg.)

“Going to the bathroom,” he says.

“I’m out now, if you want to use it.”

“No, I don’t need to.”

“I thought you were going?”

Greenberg stares at him, mouth gaped open just slightly, then turns around and goes down the stairs. Stiles waits for a beat to make sure he isn’t coming back, then slips the note underneath Isaac’s door. He taps quietly and goes back downstairs to the party.

He doesn’t hear from Isaac because he never hears from Isaac, but two days later an email from an unknown sender appears in his inbox.

 _(no subject)_  
nonono@yahoo.com  
to: bluejeep1996@gmail.com 

_please please please don’t do anyting stupid your going to make him angrier what if we don’t win then im going to be stuck w him alone now that cams gone u said in ur letter that were almost graduated y cant we wait until graduation then we can leave but not now I cant do it_

_im using a school comp so i cant check until tmr please_

Stiles runs a hand over his face and puts his head down on the desk. God. He’d scared Isaac. He taps back a response.

 _(no subject)_  
bluejeep1996@gmail.com  
to: nonono@yahoo.com

_did you flush the letter down the toilet like I told you to?_

_look, we’ll set him up. you won’t be alone. he won’t get away with it. i’ll come over and we’ll tell him that we’re together. if plans go accordingly, he’ll fly into a fit of rage, at which point my dad will burst in and arrest him. you’re right, graduation is soon. you’re almost 18. which means you can come live with me and my dad when your dad goes to jail._

_i miss you. i miss kissing you and talking to you and watching movies in your bed. please let me do this for you._

When Stiles checks the next afternoon, there are two emails in his inbox from the same email. First –

 _(no subject)_  
nonono@yahoo.com  
to: bluejeep1996@gmail.com

_ok. not 2nite. friday?_

_i love you._

Stiles stares at the message for what feels like forever, then rolls the chair out from under his desk and shouts, “DAD!”

He sees Isaac in the hall during the week, looking sickly but still sneering at everyone he crosses paths with, but they don’t talk. Stiles thinks about kissing him again. Before, it was bearable, not knowing what it felt like, but now it’s like an itch he can’t scratch. He wants to press Isaac back against the lockers, down on the table, push the tips of his fingers just below the waistband of Isaac’s boxers and dig his nails into the skin there. He’s on the verge of getting what he wants. He’s on the verge of taking Isaac away.

He meets Isaac’s eye in the hall on Friday afternoon as school’s letting out. Isaac is pale and clammy and he gives Stiles a weak smile, and it’s the most he’s looked like himself Stiles has ever seen outside of his bedroom. He gestures _seven o’clock_ with his hands and Isaac nods and swallows thickly.

 At six forty-five, he goes with his dad in the cruiser to Isaac’s neighborhood. They sit outside a house twelve doors down, hidden behind a big black SUV, and John leans over and grips Stiles’ shoulder tightly.

“You be careful in there,” he says. His eyes are tight at the corners, crinkled like they were in the weeks before his wife died. Stiles wants to smooth the lines out with his finger and make the worry go away. “He goes for a knife or a gun or anything – you take cover, all right? I’m right behind you.”

Stiles reaches out and grabs his dad around the elbow and squeezes, just a little.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, then gets out of the car.

The walk up the sidewalk to Isaac’s house feels like a million miles, but then it’s over too fast. He stares back down the street to where his dad is parked and notes in relief that he can’t see the cruiser. He takes a deep breath to steady himself and knocks.

Coach is in a Beacon Hills Swim Team tee shirt and a pair of jeans and he smiles when he sees Stiles.

“Stilinski,” he says, clapping him on the shoulder, and it’s a lot harder and heavier than when his own dad did it not five minutes ago. “What brings you to see your ole Coach?”

“I was wondering if we could talk.” He grins. “I want you to write me a recommendation letter. I think I’m going to go for a swimming scholarship.”

Coach gives him a proud look and gestures for Stiles to come inside. They go down to the kitchen and sit at the little round table, and Coach talks about how happy he is and asks where he wants to go and Stiles lies through his teeth, fingertips tracing the veins of the wood.

He hears Isaac pad down the stairs and then he’s there in the kitchen, and it’s been such a long time since Stiles has seen him in a tee shirt and sweatpants and without his bracelets. There are new scars on his wrists and Stiles wants to kiss them all and fill the gaps where Isaac had been sad.

“I’ve got something else to tell you, Coach.” He fakes excitement even though his heart is pounding near out of his chest and rises to his feet. He smiles reassuringly at Isaac and reaches out to take his hand. Then he turns to face Isaac’s dad, who has a white-knuckled grip on his coffee cup. “I… I really like your son. I, uh, I love him, in fact. You raised a pretty cool guy.”

He looks over at Isaac, who’s trying to smile but looks more like he’s going to start crying. Stiles kind of furrows his brow a little bit like he doesn’t know what’s going on. Before he can turn back to Isaac’s dad, Coach has swept everything off the table and onto the floor with ferocious force. One of the coffee mugs slams against the opposite wall and Isaac skitters away into the hall, tugging Stiles with him.

“ _How_ _dare you_?” he roars, tearing out after them. Stiles pushes Isaac behind him, back towards the living room, and lets the punch Coach throws hit him in the gut. It’s enough. It’s enough.

“Dad!” Stiles screams while Coach spits out swears and keeps hitting, and the door bursts open behind him and there he is, gun raised.

“Down on the ground!” he yells, and Coach throws himself onto the wooden floor. He stops making noise, but he glares up at the ceiling. “Roll onto your stomach. You’re under arrest for assault of a minor.”

“This is a set-up,” he spits as Stiles’ dad handcuffs him. “You set me up.”

“No.” Sheriff pulls him up onto his feet and nudges him out towards the door. “I was in the neighborhood and heard a boy yelling for help. I went to investigate and found that you were _hitting my son_.” He bumps Mr. Lahey face-first into the doorframe. When he grunts, Sheriff says, “Don’t you dare touch my son again, you piece of shit.”

Stiles winds an arm around his aching stomach and crawls over to where Isaac’s huddled up against the couch, shaking and crying. Stiles holds his wrist tightly until he looks up, then he reaches up and pushes the tears away with the knuckle of his index finger.

“Come live with me,” Stiles whispers. He presses his forehead against Isaac’s. When he nods, Stiles leans forward to kiss him, but Isaac ducks out of the way.

“You don’t want to kiss me right now,” he says in a shaky voice. “I’ve been throwing up for the past two hours.”

“There’s nothing that could make me not want to kiss you,” Stiles whispers. He presses a kiss to the skin above Isaac’s top lip and strokes a hand around the back of his neck. Isaac has stopped crying but he’s still shaking and Stiles cards a hand through the curls on the back of his head. “You’re safe now, okay? I’ve got you.”

Isaac leans further into his touch, fingers sliding over the scars on his own wrists, and presses his face against Stiles’ neck. “Thank you. Thank you.”


End file.
